


Put Out My Hand

by pearlbali (resqueln)



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resqueln/pseuds/pearlbali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war.  Jeeves POV.  AU for any canon set during and after WWII.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put Out My Hand

I was fortunate in my time in Europe that the worst I suffered was a crushed leg, an injury that destroyed my thigh bone and narrowly avoided severing my femoral artery.  Unable to walk, I was dispatched to a field hospital where I was assessed as being unfit to return to duty and sent back to Britain to recuperate.  I regret to say that my time in France had furnished me with a wealth of unpleasant memories which preyed on me in the quiet of the hospital ward at night.  With little else to distract me in the long hours, save a volume of Wordsworth smuggled in for me by one of the nurses, my stay was a rather unpleasant one.

In my convalescence there I made two phone calls on the old two piece phone that the ward Sister let the better behaved patients use.  The first was to my sister, Daisy, and the second was to another number, still familiar to me after several years.

“Brinkley Court.”  A voice had answered.

There was a pause as I opened my mouth to speak and then stopped as my nerve failed me. 

“Hello?”  The voice prompted.

I replaced the receiver with a click. 

After a month it became clear that I would not be able to return to the war as I could no longer walk without the use of a cane.  I was discharged in all senses and was once again free to make my own way in the world.  I immediately travelled up to the village in Shropshire where my sister was residing with a distant cousin, driven out of London by the Luftwaffe.  Our reunion had been a sombre affair, her face registering dismay as she took in my no doubt alarming appearance. 

The Shropshire countryside was in full bloom, nature celebrating its favourite season in all its bright colours and gay songs, impervious to my mood as I surveyed it.  The sheer bright blue of the sky and the peaceful, fragrant air seemed in gross defiance of the horror that I had left behind me.

I very quickly discovered that the quiet of the country was incompatible with my state of mind and resolved to return to London as soon as I could, regardless of the threat of German bombs. I had enough money put by to pay my rent until I could find work of some nature. 

Daisy had shaken her head in bemusement but had brought me a selection of London papers from the village, and within a week I had drawn up a list of properties to visit.  Knowing that Daisy would prefer to remain in Shropshire, I refused her generous offer to accompany me to London, kissed her goodbye and made my way back to the capital alone.

From the train window I observed the grim devastation the Blitz had wrought on the cities we passed through.  Coventry, Bristol, Reading - all scarred with rubble where once fine buildings had stood.  I knew the devastation to be greater in the capital but knowledge alone cannot guard us against our human experience.  I felt this all too keenly as I stood before the site where the fine entrance to Berkley Mansions had once been, momentarily overcome. 

Within a few days I had secured myself both rooms and a job as a secretary for a small law firm, my injury precluding a return to my former profession.  A busy routine was, as I had predicted, a successful distraction from the unconstructive thoughts that had plagued me during my inactive hours. 

During the nights however, when bombs were falling on the city and memories threatened to overwhelm me, I would lose myself in reminiscence of happier times.  My years in the employ of Mr Wooster were often on my mind in those instances - the only time I let myself think of him.

It had been two years since I had last seen him, a life time ago for all that had happened since that day. The memory was fresh to my mind still. I remembered well the weight of his hand in mine as we shook hands on the train platform, two souls lost in a crowd of hundreds. We had been surrounded by people making their goodbyes to loved ones, the wretched sounds of grief all about us and the terrible uncertainty of ever meeting again forefront to my mind. Our hands had lingered too long to be either decent or a coincidence and when I had met his eyes in astonishment, had found him looking at me in surprise. There had been no time for revelations and we had parted shortly afterwards, Mr Wooster smiling as he had wished me goodbye. 

Since then I had heard no news of him at all, having been first on the front line and then returned home to a capital devoid of most of my previous connections.  I did not even know if he was alive.

A few months after my return to the capital, I was running errands in Burlington Arcade when a familiar face caught my eye.

“Jeeves, is that you?”  Mrs Travers barked at me.

I suppressed a smile.  In a world that is ever changing, the permanent is a source of strength and sanity.  Mrs Travers had aged well, she was a lady of advanced years now but other than her grey hair she seemed largely unchanged in mind and body.

“Yes, Mrs Travers.”

“Good God, man, it’s good to see you.” 

“Thank you, Mrs Travers."

Her eyes took in my leg and cane. 

“Well now, I presume that is the reason you’re back in England?” she asked bluntly.

I murmured my assent.

“I hope it doesn’t hurt you too much, Jeeves,” she said, regarding me in a concerned manner.

“No, Mrs Travers. I am lucky enough that it is just a hindrance.” 

It is not, by far, the worst lie I have ever told.

She raised an eyebrow sceptically, but let my comment pass.  “Good, good.  It’s good to see you home safe, Jeeves.  God willing, this blasted war will be over soon.”

“Let us hope so,” I agreed. 

“Quite.  Now must biff off, got to go visit my useless tailor,” Mrs Travers said, turning to leave.

“Mrs Travers,” I began quickly, “your nephew, Mr Wooster...” and then I could not find the words to continue.

Mrs Travers regarded me with a keen eye for a moment.

“I’m surprised you don’t know more of Bertie’s whereabouts than I do,” she said eventually, her expression one of curiosity.

 “Unfortunately I have not been able to ascertain Mr Wooster’s location or... state of health.”

Her expression tightened and she looked away.

“As far as I know, he’s alive.  With any luck we’ll get him back breathing and with all of his bits attached,” she said, her voice tinged with bitter anger.

A powerful relief flooded me, my knees almost weakening with the force of it.  With some difficulty, I schooled my features and inclined my head in acknowledgement. 

“Please pass on my regards should you have chance to speak with him.”

“Certainly,” she replied.  “Good day, Jeeves.”

Now that I knew he was alive I scanned the death lists thoroughly each day.  I was in a better position to be abreast of the political situation in London and I was coming to the opinion that the war was entering its penultimate days.  I had long ago resigned myself to the futility of hoping to resume my acquaintance with Mr Wooster on the same terms on which it had been left, however I hoped that he and I would be able to continue our association in some other form, whatever that form may be.  As it seemed more and more certain that the war would end, I allowed myself to entertain hope perhaps more regularly than I should have.

On the day the war ended the streets filled with people.  London lay in tatters about her too-thin residents as they danced and celebrated in the streets with unreserved joy. 

Days passed into weeks and weeks passed into months.  Several times I found myself dialling the number for Brinkley Court, only to stay my hand at the last moment.  It was three months before there was a knock at my door.

“Hallo, Jeeves.” 

The shock of seeing him before me so unexpectedly rendered me speechless.  My expression must have conveyed my shock because he smiled, brightness only slightly dimmed by the horrors I knew he had seen. 

“Surprised to see me?”

“A little, sir, yes,” I stepped away from the door. “Please, won’t you come in?”

As we sat across from each other in my modest sitting room, I couldn’t help mentally cataloguing his features. He looked older than before, though that was hardly surprising. He had more gravity to his person now, his nature more subdued. It was with a quiet smile he watched me in return. I briefly wondered how I appeared to him.

 “Does your leg hurt?”  He asked eventually.

“Yes, sir.  But not badly.”  I replied truthfully, not wanting any lies to mar this reunion.

There were many questions I wished to ask him.  Where had he been posted?  Had he escaped uninjured?  

“Look here, Jeeves, before…  Well before the war you said you would come back to work as my valet.  Would you still want to?”

“I am afraid Mr Wooster that I am no longer able to perform my duties as your valet due to the hindrance of my leg.  I would not be able to provide an adequate service for you, sir.”

He frowned.

“Well, that’s rather taken the wind out of my sails.”

I felt my lips try to curl helplessly upwards.

“If I may make a suggestion, sir?  Perhaps I could be of use to you as a secretary?”

He smiled that new quiet smile again and I found I was growing to like the sight of it.

“It’s good to see that brain of yours is still ticking over, Jeeves.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Of course I will give you accommodation and board.”

“You’re very kind, sir.”

A month later found us installed in suitable London lodgings.  My life was quiet, Mr Wooster’s affairs were in good order and under my careful guidance through the slump in the economy they remained so.  The post-war celebrations had ended and a subdued Britain had begun rebuilding herself. 

In those first few weeks, Mr Wooster and I renavigated our relationship as employer and employee.  Much had changed.  Neither of us were the same men we had been.  Though Mr Wooster’s good nature remained unchanged he was more subdued, he too had brought ghosts home. 

In the later months of the year, when London had adorned her grey garments of mist and fog, Mr Wooster took to more frequently spending his evenings at home – inviting me to join him in reading in the sitting room, warm from the fire against the autumn chill.  After some persuasion, I eventually agreed and it became customary for he and I to sit together quietly for several hours each evening, he with a detective novel and I with an improving book. 

Whatever ideas I had harboured during our time apart they faded quickly in the quiet contentment of this new arrangement.  After all that I had seen and survived, to spend the rest of my days in his company seemed the greatest of gifts; to ask for more, abhorrently greedy.

Whether we would have continued as we were indefinitely, I cannot say. As it was, it was one morning during the festive season when I betrayed myself utterly and my best intentions were torn asunder. On that morning it was bright, unusual for a day so late in the year. The sun was streaming in through the south facing window. 

“Good morning, sir,” I said as I laid the post on the table beside his chair. 

He turned his head from his book up to smile at me and my breath caught.  Haloed by the sunlight, he was the loveliest of visions.  Mr Wooster’s smile faded and I knew then that I had betrayed myself.  I made to move away, hoping to regain my composure and return us to our equilibrium forthwith.  His hand covered my own, still resting on the envelopes between us. 

“Jeeves,” he said fondly and then carefully, deliberately laced his fingers with my own.

Hope caught sharp in my throat.

In that hushed room I kissed him, our rough hands resting, interlinked between us.  It was a simple and modest gesture, but nonetheless it occasioned the most important and happiest moment of my life.

**Author's Note:**

> This story took me 5 years to write bit by bit. Even now I'm still not sure about it. I really hope that it entertains. 
> 
> One of my betas pointed out that we don't see much of Bertie's side of things in this story. This was a deliberate choice. Neither my grandfather nor my friends' grandfathers ever talked about what happened to them in the war, not even to their spouses. A little googling found this was not uncommon. I guess people came home and wanted to get on with their lives.
> 
> As always, constructive criticism gratefully received.


End file.
